


Military Scars and Tattooed Pasts

by humbertnorth



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: British Military, Community: sherlockkink, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Military Homophobia, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-18
Updated: 2010-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:29:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humbertnorth/pseuds/humbertnorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes thinks he has perfectly cataloged Watson's body but it turns out he missed a small spot. It happens to be the last piece of the Watson puzzle and everything falls into place.</p>
<p>Effectively from Holmes point of view - building on the idea that Holmes harbours romantic feelings for Watson. This is a one-shot from the Livejournal kink meme back in 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Military Scars and Tattooed Pasts

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this anonymously in 2010 for the Livejournal kink meme (the 'sherlockkink' account - which seems to have been purged since then) for Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes film, although it doesn't divert hugely from the books.
> 
> I honestly can't remember the prompt but it was along the lines of Watson having a secret tattoo that Holmes doesn't know about and his reaction to discovering it.

Holmes thinks he knows everything there is to know about Watson. He knows about his notorious history with women, he knows the details of his medical history, he knows which days his wartime injuries hurt more than others. Even more than this, Holmes has spent years closely observing his dear friends battered yet somehow perfect form. He could tell you the location of nearly every scar, mole and bruise. The hardness of his arms, the jutting of his hips and the broadness of his shoulders. Having spent so much time together, he takes every opportunity presented to caress his friend’s fine form. Each touch adding new data to his tactile memory of Watson. Of course, Holmes’ obsession with his friends body comes from a deeper, much more illicit place than that of simple curiosity. Despite all this, he is rarely offered the chance to glimpse Watson in any state of dress that isn’t somewhat formal. It is entirely possible that he has, in the past, ‘accidentally’ entered Watson’s rooms without knocking but even in private, Watson doesn’t seem to... undress. At least, not when Holmes has been around.

Holmes had been wrapping up a case with Lestrade at the station which was taking longer than usual thanks to a particularly stubborn witness. Watson’s leg had decided that today was not a good day and was throbbing in so much pain that even the police officers in the other room could see the agony etched on his features. Holmes leaned into Watson, ever the opportunist. He was partially holding him up as his poor friend was nearly doubling over in pain, leaning heavily on his cane. “Please, my dear fellow, go back to Baker Street. You are in no fit state and you have already completed the necessary paperwork.” Holmes’ voice was filled with guilt, wishing he hadn’t dragged him out of the house to chase criminals through the sewers of London. Watson nodded, grimacing at a twinge of pain “I’ll see you back at the house” he manages to mumble out. Holmes looked over to Clarkie, providing him with a significant nod that told him to help Watson out of the station. Turning back to Lestrade after watching his friend hobble to the sidewalk, with a wary Clarkie watching his every move, Holmes sigh audibly. “Lets get on with it then” he remarked loudly which spurred the police officers back to their work.

* * *

He was in the back of a carriage and exuberantly happy that he was able to escape from the station quicker than he had anticipated. As the horse-drawn vehicle pulled up beside the curb, Holmes skittered out of the confined space and passed the driver his fare. It was only just turning afternoon and Holmes had already decided that he and Watson were going out to the Opera this evening. He was feeling rather excited at the idea of taking in some culture with Watson as he had procured excellent tickets to Giordano’s new Opera, _Fedora_. He hurriedly entered 221B and climbed the stairs in anticipation of telling Watson the good news, after all, it was bound to make him feel better about his tortured leg. He slowed his pace as he approached the entrance to Watson’s rooms, the door uncharacteristically ajar. Slowly pushing aside the wooden obstacle that was obscuring his view, he was greeted with the sight of Watson stripped down to his undergarments. Watson’s trousers were partway down his legs, just before where his muscles become complete and unscarred by the hardship of war. He was reclined on his desk, one leg on a chair whilst his hands where intensely working the abused muscles of his thigh. The curtains were partially drawn, only slivers of light creeping into the room. As Holmes’ eyes absorbed every detail of his appearance for use at a later time, his attention fell on a dark shape on Watson’s lower abdomen. Watson hadn’t noticed his presence yet over his own soft mumbling and his knitted brows told him he was too distracted. So Holmes moved closer, trying to decipher this new development, this new discovery. He knew he should leave - leave the poor man to tend to his wounds and relax but Holmes couldn’t leave such a mystery unsolved. He pressed on and forgot about his surroundings for a moment and the telltale creaky floorboard gave him away in an instance. Watson’s murmuring stopped and his eyes cracked open, peering at his new visitor in the dimly lit room. 

“Holmes” came the breathy response to his unexpected appearance. “I thought you were...” Watson tried to form more words but they were lost in the returning pain as his hands were no longer working.

Feeling guilty, yet again, Holmes nearly ran to his side “sshhh, please, don’t speak”. He then replaced Watson’s hands with his own and continued the hard massage, pushing knots from the unforgiving wound. Watson’s head fell back onto the desk, hitting it with a slight bump and his eyelids slipped closed again. After a moment, Holmes was brought back to the reality of the situation. He had his hands on Watson’s thigh. He was touching Watson in the most intimate way he ever had the good fortune to and his hands were causing little moans to escape his companions lips. Although the moans were not a result of anything as perverse as Holmes’ mind wanted him to believe, they still went straight to his groin. He took this opportunity to apologise, seeing as what he was doing went against all his personal barriers, he thought it rather appropriate. “I’m truly sorry for... finding you this way, the door was open and...”

“Please, you’re a god send. Had of I known your hands had such a medicinal use I would have utilised them long ago” Both men chuckled at this, easing the tension and awkwardness from the room. Holmes continued to massage the flesh beneath his fingers and decided that it wouldn’t be so terrible to take this opportunity to catalog Watson’s body at such a close range. Besides, Watson’s eyes were closed, he wouldn’t see Holmes looking where he shouldn’t. Taking in every inch of his skin, the golden complexion, the thick hair covering his chest, the rippling of abdominal muscles, his eyes landed back onto the dark shape. Clearer now because of his intimate proximity, he could read the simple text written in cursive script: “Brothers in blood, lost but never forever”. The ink had faded and blurred from age but it was still legible. Watson opened his eyes and watched as Holmes mouthed the words as he read them.

“He wasn’t a soldier, you know” He says conversationally, catching Holmes off guard and yet he now has his undivided attention. Holmes’ silence prompts him to continue.

“I met him before Afghanistan. He was in the same war but I never saw him, we never fought alongside as comrades” Holmes isn’t sure he understands what he is hearing but he feels his heart constrict at the thought of Watson’s heartache. He decides that if he was worthy of a tattoo that he was probably worthy of Watson’s love.

“Did he die in the war?” Holmes stagnates asking the question he really wants answered. “He did to some extent. It was... my fault for how his life ended” A grim expression flickers across his face, only just starting to relax from the pain and yet there is even more pain inside him.

“You loved him.” He has already deduced this but he needed to say it out loud to believe his own thoughts.  
“Yes.” Comes the simple reply. Freed slightly by Holmes’ own boldness, Watson elaborates “I sent him letters, photographs, drawings, poems, anything I could think of. The ever reliable British service intercepted my letters and he was sentenced to hard labour. His heart died in the war but his body died years later in the small confines of a gaol cell.” Silence. Holmes’ fingers cease their movements as the muscles lay relaxed beneath his touch. “I got the tattoo after I found out about his sentence and at the start of my own service.” Holmes is stunned by his honesty and Watson interprets this as disapproval. His face is slowly flooded with a mix of sorrow and dread, without the distraction of Holmes’ hands, the weight of his admission lands on his shoulders.

“I trust you won’t be sharing this infor...” Watson’s words are cut off by Holmes’ lips over his. The rushed movements ending with Holmes halfway on the desk to better reach the object of his desires. The weight of Holmes lean chest on his is familiar and invited, fully realising just how much he missed this feeling. They both moan into the kiss and Watson grasps at Holmes’ clothes, trying to pull him impossibly closer. Watson opens his mouth, inviting Holmes to take what he has wanted for so long. Watson rubs their tongues against each other in a way that goes straight to Holmes groin, causing filthy noises to break through the silence. Holmes breaks the kiss and trails sloppy licks and kisses down Watson’s chest towards his new favourite stretch of skin. Watson creeps his hands into his companions hair, loosely holding onto the dark curls. He creates a path down the centre of his chest to Watson’s belly button, kissing and sucking the hole and surrounding skin. He slowly moves over to the tattoo, planting little kisses over the permanently marked skin, trying to sooth away Watson’s pain. The man below him is moaning loudly and he can feel a hardness growing beneath his chest.

A door slamming downstairs causes them both to jump, the shrill voice of Mrs. Hudson rings through the house - “Dr. Watson! I’ve brought Gladstone back for you! He didn’t want to go very far so I just took him to Regent’s Park!” Holmes’ instincts cause him to throw a hand over Watson’s mouth, effectively silencing any noise they were previously making. After a moment, he feels Watson smiling and laughing beneath his hand so he removes it.  
“Thank you Mrs. Hudson!” Watson yells in the general direction of downstairs. They hear Mrs. Hudson shuffle around downstairs, satisfying their nerves by knowing she wasn’t coming upstairs any time soon.  
“I forgot to mention, Mrs. Hudson took Gladstone out for his walk since I was incapacitated. And that’s also why the door wasn’t locked.” Holmes narrows his eyes but starts laughing, “so you leave the door open for Nanny but not for me?”  
“Oh god no, I always lock it except when I’m in blinding pain. If you recall” he chuckles. At this Holmes fixes his features into a serious expression, “I never wanted to cause you any pain, had I know your leg was playing up I would never have asked you to come today.” Holmes lifts himself up and climbs back up Watson’s form “I just... I always want to have you with me.” Watson can’t help but grin.  
“And I with you” Holmes plants a soft kiss on his lips and climbs off, moving swiftly to the door. He closes it, locks it and turns around with a devilish grin on his face.  
“So where were we?”

**Author's Note:**

> I used wikipedia for the Opera reference - I know nothing about Opera but [Giordano's Fedora](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fedora_\(opera\)) was written about the time of the canon stories. On reflection, probably not a perfect reference since I don't think it ever showed in London during the timeframe.


End file.
